


It Wasn't You

by phantisma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While hunting the ghost of a girl who was brutally raped and murdered and is now killing any men who venture into the abandoned factory where it happened, John becomes her next victim, but not before Dean gives her ideas and she changes the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't You

John didn't want to take Dean on this particular hunt. He was exactly the kind of man this spirit, or whatever the hell they were dealing with, had been attacking. But, he wasn't taking Sam, there were still some things John was adamant about protecting the boy from, and he couldn't go in alone, and that left Dean.

John double checked the rock salt, watching as Dean loaded his shotgun and silently counted the rounds he had before shoving them into a pocket. "You stick close." John said as he closed the trunk, his eyes skipping over his oldest son. "I don't want you wandering off."

Dean shot him a look that was nearly the equivalent of calling his father an idiot, then set his shotgun on the trunk of the car while he zipped up his jacket. "Lets go get us a ghost."

"We don't know that it is a ghost." John corrected, stepping over the debris from the decrepit building. Once upon a time it had been a factory…in better days. After it had been shut down it became a playground for teenagers and gangs, slowly falling to ruin.

"Come on, it's the perfect recipe for it." Dean challenged, flicking on his flashlight. "They found the girl mutilated. That would make me angry."

Not just mutilated. John had read the coroners report. Nineteen seventy two. Mandy Levin, eighteen. She'd been found naked and tied to a piece of equipment on the factory floor. She'd been raped repeatedly, tortured, the hair on her head shaved and finally, when the man was finished with her, he'd cut her open and left her to bleed to death. She'd still been alive with the rats started to eat her.

The victims, five so far, were all gang-bangers and punks. They'd been found dead in the factory, their stomachs ripped open, left to bleed and be eaten by the rats. One had survived, though John doubted he'd ever be okay again.

He'd described a girl, naked, dirty, bleeding. She appeared out of nowhere and slashed him up, squatted over him and screamed in his face before she disappeared.

"What I don't get…" Dean said, flashing his light over the dirty floor. "If the girl was raped and tortured, why is she only killing them? I mean, if it were me, I'd be looking to do more damage."

John stopped to look at Dean, who shrugged. "I'm just saying…none of them were sexually assaulted. Didn't that girl in Dallas fuck her victims before she killed them?"

"That was different." John said, returning his attention to the hunt. "She was sodomized with a broom handle. She was repeating the crime. This girl was raped by a man. She doesn't have the equipment." He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and swung his light around. "There."

Dean nodded, bringing the shotgun up. They moved cautiously over the concrete floor toward the spot. There was nothing but a dried blood stain when they got there. "This is where they found the last guy." John said.

He looked around them. Police reports said that the others were killed further into the building. "She was found over there." He pointed to the left.

"So we're thinking she left something behind and that's why she's still here?" Dean asked, moving beside John.

"Her mother told police that she was wearing a Star of David necklace when she disappeared. It was never recovered."

"So we're looking for a tiny silver necklace in a factory filled with equipment in the middle of the night?" Dean shook his head, stepping over a pile of steel rods.

"We're trying to verify that it is this girl, before we jump to conclusions." John corrected. "Over there."

They moved together toward the large hulking mass of machine that looked like the pictures John had found of the original crime scene. "So, why doesn't she borrow a dick?" Dean asked as they stopped beside the machine.

"What?" John really didn't know what Dean was thinking, and wasn't sure he wanted to. "Can't you focus?"

"That ghost out in Barden, he possessed people and got them to re-enact his crime."

"Dean, get your head on the hunt or I'll kick your ass back to the car." John turned to look at the rusted out metal. In the dark and shadow he couldn't see much. He ran his hand over the railing where she had been chained. Dean moved around toward the back of the machine.

"She wasn't raped here." John said, looking around them. "He just left her here when he was done."

Dean came around the other side of the equipment. "I'll bet the necklace isn't here then. It's a religious symbol, maybe the guy who did it ripped it off of her. Guilt or something?"

"So we keep looking."

"If it were me, I'd want someplace flat to put her on, tie her down…" Dean's flashlight moved over the room, seeking out the far wall. "Someplace where I didn't have to worry about getting interrupted."

John nodded, following his line of reasoning. "A conference room maybe…or an office."

Dean's light hit an opening, dark shadows against an even darker hallway. "Back there?"

John nodded. "Probably."

Dean led the way slowly, his gun at the ready, his flashlight steady. John thought he saw movement again, but it flickered away just as fast. He gestured in the direction he thought he saw something and Dean nodded tightly, moving just ahead of him up the hall.

Four conference rooms later, Dean shoved on a door that seemed jammed. It took some doing, but finally it came open, the sound of metal screeching as Dean pushed against whatever was blocking the door.

The table that dominated the center of the room was big, covered with leather straps and chains. "Looks like the place." Dean said, stepping over a broken chair. John moved his light over the wood of the table, stopping where the color deepened. "Blood?" Dean asked, stopping in his survey of the room.

"Could be. If this is where he did her…"

"Oh, this is the place." Dean said, squatting down.

John couldn't see what he was looking at, but watched as Dean reached out a hand. His son shuddered, exhaling heavily before cracking his neck and standing slowly, a silver chain hanging out of his hand.

"Her necklace?" John asked, already turning away to see if there was anything else important in the room.

"Bastard tore it off my neck."

There was something odd in Dean's voice, not quite right. John turned, but before he could open his mouth to say anything, something heavy came crashing down on the back of his neck and his knees buckled. The world went dark as Dean chuckled.

 

 

Cold.

Pain.

It took him a few minutes to localize the pain. His head. It pounded. His shoulders. His arms were stretched overhead, weighed down. He swallowed and tried opening his eyes.

The room swam, then Dean's face appeared over him, blurry before slowly revolving. "I was beginning to think I'd hit you too hard."

"Dean? What…"

Slowly his memory came back, Dean's face, voice…the blow and the darkness. "What did you do?"

Dean's lips turned up. "I listened. Never thought about it before." Dean's hands touched him and slowly John came to recognize the danger. He was chained and strapped to the table, naked, exposed. His knees bent and pulled to the sides, chained down. His cock lay heavy against his thigh.

"Dean—"

He pulled back, waving a rusty knife in John's face. "He's…hmmm…busy." The smile was disturbing as the knife drifted down toward John's cock. "Normally I just cut guys up…leave them bloody."

Dean's face leaned in close, "But you're boy here? He's right. Why should I spare you the things he did to me?"

This was bad. "Dean, you listen to me. You fight this."

"You scared?" Dean's hands ran the tip of that knife over John's stomach. "It's okay. I understand. You can scream if you want. I screamed until I was choking on my own blood. No one will hear you."

"Dean."

Dean turned away, dropping out of John's line of sight. He pulled on his wrists, but the chains just cut into his skin. When Dean came back to the table, he had something in his hand. "He drugged me." Dean's hand held the syringe up where John could see it. "I couldn't fight, but I kept telling him no."

"You don't want to do this." John said, struggling as his son came closer with a needle that looked rusted and old. The drugs inside it were probably old too…and who knew what that would do to him.

"I didn't want to do it then either, but he put the needle in my arm and then he touched me, made my body hot…told me I was a whore, a dirty slut." The needle bit into him and John cursed, still struggling to get free. "Look who's slutty now."

John could already feel the drug inside him, like a living thing, burning through him. He gasped and shook his head, trying to stop the way his vision was swimming. "Show me how much you want me, baby." Dean's voice sounded softer, less masculine.

A hand touched John's cock, sliding up it slowly before fingers curled around him and he was hard. Just like that. "See?"

The table creaked and Dean loomed over him. "Don't." John couldn't focus on the face above him. Dean moved in and out of his sight, shedding his clothes. John's cock was alive with need and Dean's hand obliged him, jacking him slow and like it or not, John was going to come eventually. His body moved against Dean's hand even though his mind was screaming at him to stop.

Dean laughed when it happened, when hot come spilled out of him onto his naked stomach, his hand still moving over John's cock until John was yelling and begging, "Stop…god, stop."

Dean was over him, close, his lips hovering just above John's mouth. "Do you know how many times I begged him to stop? Do you know what he did when I begged?" Dean's hand scooped through the come and was gone. John was panting, looking around him for some escape. Fingers forced into his mouth, fingers sticky with his own come. "He fucked me harder."

John screamed as Dean's cock shoved into him, white hot pain lancing through him. Darkness swam around his eyes, but Dean's hand squeezed his face. "Stay with me old man. I promise I'll make it good."

Time stretched and dilated and collapsed around them. John faded out and woke to Dean's mouth on his, Dean's tongue inside his mouth. His body was rigid against the table, pulled open, pulled tight. There was blood, but he didn't remember why. Then it flashed in his memory…Dean's hand and the knife, slicing thin lines into his chest, over his stomach.

John swallowed the thick feeling of lead from the drugs, struggled to open his eyes. Dean was there, inside him, leering down at him, the rusty, bloody knife in his hands. John's eyes focused on Dean's amulet, dangling off his neck. Above it was the Star of David, the chain tangled around the leather.

This deep into the building there were no signs of time, no sun or dark to let him know how long this had gone on. But he knew it had been a while. Hours, maybe longer.

There was a rush of heat and Dean slid away, his voice drifting back to John, rambling on about how good it feels. John's throat was raw. He vaguely remembered yelling, screaming, begging. The drugs had weakened him, taken his control, intensified each touch, each scrape of nails and knife. He could feel come leak from his ass onto the wood. His stomach was crusty with his own.

Pain and shame and fear warred inside him as Dean returned with the needle again. "No…no more…please…"

"I like it when you beg." Dean's hand was deceptively gentle as it stroked over John's face. He held up the needle, his hand shaking…or maybe it was John who was shaking.

"No." Dean dropped the needle and took a step away, his hand closing around the Star of David. "No." He screamed, doubling over and shaking, convulsing as his body hit the ground.

"Dean?"

The room was silent, until Dean started vomiting, his back arching up.

"Dean?" John turned his head as far as he could, trying to see his son.

"Dad?" His voice trembled as he dragged his hand over his mouth. His eyes met John's and blinked away. "Oh God." He doubled over again, gagging and retching.

"Got to…cut me loose, Son." John forced himself to focus on that, on getting loose. He wouldn't think about the rest. Not right now. "Dean." His tone took on a commanding sound and Dean's head snapped up.

He stood, slow, his eyes on the floor. He shuffled closer, one hand hiding his cock as he reached for the chains around John's wrists. It took a few minutes, but finally John's hands came free and he lowered them slowly, cradling his hands to his stomach while Dean worked on his feet.

His head wanted to explode as he struggled up, trying to sit. Dean reached for him, then pulled away, turned away to hide. He fumbled around and found clothes. Not that John could blame him. His ass screamed as he shifted, he was hurting pretty good in other places too. This might not be something he could fix himself.

"Dean—"

Dean stopped him with a shaking hand holding his father's jeans. John took them.

"Can you walk?" Dean asked after a long time. He didn't look at John when he said it, just put John's jacket on the table next to him.

He wasn't even sure he could get up off the table to finish putting his pants on. "I don't know."

Dean nodded tightly. "I should go for help."

"No." John didn't want anyone to find him like this. "Help me."

Dean shook his head. "I—I can't."

"Dean!" They both turned toward the door to the room.

"Sam." Dean said softly. He didn't wait for John, just bolted out the door, yelling his brother's name.

John tried to ease himself off the table, wincing as the movement stretched the tender skin in his ass in ways that brought tears to his eyes. He clutched his jeans to him and clung to the table to keep from falling.

The door pushed open and Sam came into the room, all wide eyed and afraid. "Dad." He rushed to John's side, helped him without saying a word. When John's jeans were buttoned and zipped and his shirt was covering the still oozing wounds, Sam slid an arm around him. "I've got you."

He said nothing as Sam supported him out of the building and into the back seat of the Impala. "I'm going to get you to the hospital."

"No…not yet." John grabbed at his hand. "Not yet, need to clean up first."

"Dad—"

"Don't argue." He couldn't, not with Dean's bodily fluid all over him. "Hotel. Shower. Then we'll see."

 

 

An hour later, the drugs were burning out of his system, he was clean and wrapped up in clean clothes on the bed in the motel. The bleeding seemed to have stopped and Sam had cleaned out the wounds, stitched up the bad ones and bandaged him up.

Sam paced around him. Sam had figured out they were in trouble, found the bones and salted and burned them, all on his own. "Where's your brother?" John asked, his voice hoarse and his throat sore.

"He took off. Wouldn't say anything more than that you were hurt." Sam turned to face him. "I know what I saw."

"It wasn't him, Sam. Not really." John pulled a hand down his face, scratched through his whiskers. "The ghost…she got inside him somehow." The necklace. When he touched the necklace. "Find him, melt the necklace."

"I'm not leaving you."

John shook his head, laying down and pulling blankets up around him. "I'm going to sleep. I need to rest."

"You need to go to an ER and be checked over. You were raped for God's sake."

"Go find your brother." John rolled over and closed his eyes, despite the flash of images he saw when he did. He wasn't going to sleep, but he needed Sam to leave, needed to know Dean was okay.

"Fine." Sam slammed out of the room and John fought down the urge to throw up yet again. Even after brushing his teeth he could taste the come that had been forced into him. His, Dean's…he wasn't really sure.

They'd been there a long time. Almost forty-two hours. He was lucky he was still alive. Sam was right about one thing, he needed more medical care than he had here. He needed antibiotics at least.

He tried to make his mind blank, to not see his son above him, not feel his hands and cock and knife, not hear his voice whispering those filthy things to him. He fought it for a long time before he drifted, not really sleeping, but not aware of time passing.

The door opened and Sam half carried, half dragged Dean into the room. The reek of alcohol blew past John as Sam guided Dean to the other bed. His shirt was torn and bloody, the necklace still there around his neck. Dean was drunk.

He fell into the bed and Sam set about taking off his boots and tucking him in. John could feel Dean's eyes, the horror and shame in them burning the air in the room. Sam bent over his brother and when he turned to John, he had the necklace. John nodded and Sam headed back out the door to find a place to melt the metal down.

"I'm so sorry." Dean whispered. "I am so ashamed. What I did to you…"

John shook his head. "It wasn't you."

"I couldn't stop it. I tried Dad…god, I tried."

"I know." John let out a slow breath.

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, Dean." He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe head to Pastor Jim's, take some time." The priest might be able to help…if anyone could help with this.

"I don't want anyone to know." Dean said, his voice small, like he was a kid again.

"Me either." John agreed. "We'll be okay, Son."

Of course, it was a lie. John Winchester wasn't entirely sure they'd ever be okay again.


End file.
